Stockholm
by Christina Simon
Summary: MARCH 28, 2005 - UPDATED. (at long last)... Sark and Sydney are forced to become allies, post-Telling, pre-The Two. Possible Sarkney. Finally complete.
1. Stockholm

Title: Stockholm (temporarily, until a better one comes along)

Author: Christina

Email: miss_scarlett89@hotmail.com

Rating: PG to PG-13 . . .  because I'm a bit young to be writing smut : )

Feedback: I would love nothing more than to have a whole page of reviews. 

Summary: Mid-ep to post-Telling. Sark's POV.

'Ship: 2% chance of slight Sarkney eventually.

Distribution: Just ask.

Disclaimer: I don't own Alias or any of its characters. I am only a fourteen-year-old girl with nothing to do and no money because I have spent it all on the first season DVD.

STOCKHOLM, SWEDEN

Sark makes his way through the crowded club. He has business here, but of a more casual type, and his clothing reflects this- blue shirt, grey jacket and jeans.

He spots Ferguson sitting alone in the middle of the room, waiting. He strides over, and Ferguson rises to meet him. They shake hands. "Mr. Williams, correct?"

Sark nods. "And Mr. Ferguson." They take seats. Ferguson begins.

"So I understand you represent Veller and Michaels, Inc."

"Also correct. The head of our branch is interested in expanding its land-" 

"Freeze!" 

"Freeze!"

Sark barely has time to glimpse the face of Michael Vaughn before his head is slammed into the glass table. He is jerked back up, and sees the CIA agent pointing his gun at him.

"See," he snarls. "When I have a gun trained on you, I don't just pull the trigger."

Sark senses his nose bleeding. His head is throbbing. And Michael Vaughn is the last person he wants to see right now- apart from a blonde Sydney Bristow, standing next to Vaughn and pointing her gun at a bewildered Ferguson. "Thank you," Sark gasps out. 

He hadn't meant to sound so- _slam._

"You're welcome," Vaughn returns. Sark's head throbs harder. 

"Where the hell is my father?" Sydney asks, her voice sharp.

_Act desperate,_ Sark tells himself, _but not too desperate. Only what they need to know._

"Not a problem," he says, breathing heavily. "My loyalties are flexible. Sloane . . . and your father . . . are in Mexico City."

He sees Vaughn and Sydney exchange glances, no doubt wondering why he gave up so easily.  Well, they'll understand soon enough.

He is slightly disappointed. He would have liked to have made that deal.


	2. Los Angeles

LOS ANGELES

The CIA takes him.

They place him in a maximum security cell. 

Sark is almost certain that it is the one Irina inhabited for so long.

He has only been there an hour and he doesn't understand how she stood it.

A big, bald-headed man is questioning him and speaking into his headset. _Director Kendall, he was arrogantly informed.  __He's just like a bull, Sark thinks amusedly. His face remains impassive. _

Kendall is speaking to Sydney, field name Mountaineer, who is in Mexico City right now with her precious handler and a team of agents.

"They're in the basement," he tells Sark. "Now what?"

Sark answers tonelessly. "The alarm system for Sloane's floor is located twenty yards down on the north wall. The grey box with a yellow stripe. Deactivation code is 1-1-5-6-6."

Kendall looks straight into his eyes, more like an angry bull than ever. "If this intel turns out to be wrong, I will personally escort you to Camp Harris, and I won't leave until you're dead and buried." __

"Then I certainly hope Mr. Sloane hasn't changed the code," he replies, his voice sardonic but his face blank. 

Kendall keeps his eyes on him as he describes the location of the box to Sydney. Then, with one last glare, he leaves Sark, alone and desperately bored.

He steps slowly to the hard metal bench that will serve as his bed. He sinks down onto it and leans against the wall. 

He knows he's in for a long haul. 


	3. Custody

Two days pass, of monotonous, unending, excruciating boredom.  

He is unable to sleep. Instead, he lies on the bench and stares at the permanent grey of the ceiling.

He wonders how Allison is faring. At this point he wouldn't be surprised if Irina had told Sydney her best friend was actually a genetic double. 

Then he remembers his last meeting with Allison, and he shuts her out of his memory. For the time being.

Irina had used him again. Set him up to be captured to give away Sloane's location to the CIA. All for Sydney. Irina's love for her daughter will be her downfall one day, he thinks contemptuously. 

Perhaps sooner.

Sark hears the rattling of the bars at the beginning of the corridor. Rather early for visitors, he thinks. 

It isn't his good friend Kendall. 

It's Jack Bristow.

_So they did find him,_ he thinks. He wonders if this means that Sloane and the device were recovered.

Jack wears his usual poker face. But Sark feels an aura around him, one of pure exhaustion and weariness. He tilts his head up a little to look at Jack, who is a few inches taller.

He remembers their last face-to-face meeting – the night he had exchanged Tippin for a Rambaldi page. 

Tippin, Tippin. Why did everything come back to Tippin? He can honestly say that he wouldn't mind giving him another appointment with that dentist contact of his. 

Jack just stares back, and begins, hesitantly at first, but growing stronger. "The CIA team invaded the building in Mexico City. I was recovered and brought back to L.A." He pauses. "Sloane escaped, along with the device. The Telling.

"Derevko was also in the building. According to Agent Vaughn, she took down several of Sloane's operatives before telling Sydney and Vaughn to follow Sloane. Vaughn went after him. Sydney went after Derevko." Sark notes the reluctance to say Irina's name.  _She did save you, you know._

"She escaped using one of the elevator shafts."

Jack pauses again, and Sark senses he is coming to the crux of the matter.

"Will Tippin was working to discover the identity of the second double from Marcovic's lab. After finding Provacillium in Sydney's bathroom, he realized that the double might have been Francie Calfo, Sydney's roommate." Sark felt an odd sensation in his stomach. _Allison. _

_What had happened to Allison?_

"According to Tippin, he then was attacked by the double, whom we've identified as A.G. Doren. She stabbed him in the side and hid his body in the bathtub.

"We've come to some conclusions about what happened after. Agent Vaughn states he brought Sydney home and then left. Tippin had left a rushed message on Sydney's cell phone, telling her that Ms. Calfo might be the double. We believe Sydney received it. 

"Vaughn was scheduled for a debrief, after which he was going to drive back to Sydney's. When he arrived, he found the remains of a colossal struggle between Sydney and the double. He also discovered Tippin, barely alive, and immediately called paramedics. 

"The double was also brought in. There were three gunshot wounds to her arm and shoulders. 

"And there was a gun. Lying on the floor, next to a broken mirror. It seems that the double smashed Sydney into the glass. There was a slash on the double's cheek. Sydney had picked up a shard and thrust it at her cheek, and then shot her. She died several hours later."

Sark's throat tightens. _Allison . . .  He forces himself to stay calm._

"Why couldn't you simply have gotten this information from Sydney?" Had she died?

Sark saw Jack's mask break for only an instant. "We couldn't find her. She's missing. We found her blood on the floor, her prints on the gun. We don't know who could have gotten to her first, or why." His stare clearly indicates his suspicion.

_Sloane, _Sark realizes. 

Jack is watching him closely. When Sark doesn't answer, he goes on. "You're wondering why I'm telling you this. Your cooperation with us during Mexico City shows you may be a valuable asset. Kendall strongly feels you should be sent to Camp Harris. That doesn't have to happen, if you tell us what we need to know. What is The Telling, and what is its purpose?"

Sark blinks.

_Jack Bristow_, he thinks, looking at him, _is infinitely more intimidating than __Kendall_ will ever be. _Not that he has ever been intimidated._

"Keeping me out of Camp Harris doesn't seem like a sufficient enough reward for intel of this magnitude. It's practically inevitable that I'll be sent there eventually."

"What do you have in mind?"

Allison, his mind cries. Give me Allison back, and you can have whatever the hell you want.

He doesn't say this. Instead he says, "It's most likely that Arvin Sloane has your daughter. In addition to giving you information about Il Dire, my employer and I will give you our assistance in finding Sydney. But only if I am officially released from U.S. custody."    

Jack's stare grows even harder. After a moment, he says, "It's not my decision to make. Director Kendall will make the final choice in a few hours. Then you'll know." He turns and leaves the cell.

Sark retreats back to his bed with one empty, hollowing thought in mind.

_Allison . . . _


	4. Road Trip

He is roughly awakened later, and he knows that he has been ordered to Camp Harris. They lead him out to where their secure transfer vehicles are waiting. 

He is not worried. If for some reason he is not intercepted by Irina, he knows of a thousand other ways he can escape.

It worked for Tippin.

Sure enough, after one half-hour has passed, he hears tires squealing, shots being fired. The van swerves and he is jerked back by the force. 

He acts quickly, using his whole body as a weapon and managing to knock two guards senseless. Bullets are flying everywhere, crashing onto the windows and sides. He spots a gun in someone's hands and grabs for it. He manages a few well placed shots while making his way to the door. There is the car . . . 

Taking several more shots, he kicks open the door. Two men entirely in black seize him and he finds himself in the car. Only several more seconds pass before they take off at top speed.


	5. Madrid

MADRID

Hours later, a jet lands in Madrid. 

Sark drives to a quiet, inconspicuous building near the edge of the city, pulling in the alleyway and entering from the side. He nods to the woman at the desk and walks quickly up the stairs. He stops at the seventh door and lifts up a small red fire alarm, which reveals a gel pad. He presses his right index finger into it, and after a few moments it turns green.  He then enters the room. 

She is rifling through a folder at her desk, but Sark has the feeling her mind is elsewhere.

She looks up and smiles at him, perhaps not genuinely, and gestures at a leather chair. He crosses over and sinks into it.

"How was your stay?" 

"Only three days and I can't recall ever being so bored in my entire life."

Irina almost looks amused, but Sark can't be. He's too drained, too detached. She notices, and her mild humor fades.

"Tippin discovered our L.A. asset," he says. "He managed to let Sydney know about her, which resulted in our asset's death- Sydney killed her."

He isn't feeling anything. No sorrow, or pain, or regret. Just emptiness.

She knows he isn't finished.

"Sydney's missing."

He watches her expression change rapidly from confusion to understanding to consternation. "Sloane."

"Presumably."

She sighs. "He *would* want to use it on her first. I should have foreseen that."

"You were preoccupied. It's understandable."

"It's not acceptable."

He says nothing because privately he agrees with her.

"The CIA wanted to know about Il Dire."

"What did you say?"

"I told them we would give them intel on it and our assistance in finding Sydney, if I was released. As you can see, they didn't think much of my offer."

Her face hardens. Sark looks at the patterned ceiling, avoiding her cold brown eyes. "If we were to recover Sydney first, and convince her that the CIA had a chance to save her and passed it up, then . . . her reluctance to work with us might be diminished."

"Maybe."

He speaks earnestly. "If she's really, as you believe, the woman in that Prophecy- she's the only one who can ultimately bring down Sloane. She's an excellent agent; she would be invaluable to our operations. And she won't be able to resist the thought that she could finally get Sloane." He adds, "I assume he hasn't contacted you in the last two days?"

Irina responds with a slight shake of her head. Sark looks back at the ceiling again. "And he must know my loyalties have shifted again," he murmurs.

"He could've used Il Dire already," she says. 

"He might still be testing it."

"How do you know he isn't testing it on Sydney?" 

"She means . . . too much to him to risk losing her."

Irina looks disgusted, and sighs. "Do you know of any place Sloane could be right now?"

Sark is ready for this. "Do you recall . . . a few months back, when we used the nuclear device on Alia Gizabi, former wife of Ahmad Kabir. One of his associates, Elid Tehrzan, became interested in Sloane's goals. I'm sure he wouldn't refuse Sloane refuge if he needed it."

"Where would that be?"

"Two miles north of Kandahar." He gives her the coordinates. "I shouldn't have any trouble getting in."

"I'll have a jet waiting, then. You'll leave in an hour."

He rises and enters a room behind the desk to prepare.


	6. Afghanistan

AFGHANISTAN

Tehrzan's headquarters are located in one of the many caves of the Hindu Kush. Sark, equipped in his usual black, makes his way silently to the entrance- a nondescript gap between the rocks. He turns numerous corners until he finally sees a black box on the wall. Opening it, he presses five numbers, and a wall immediately slides back to reveal a much more elaborately designed steel hallway.

"I've reached the interior," he says softly. "Now heading for the server room."

"Copy that."

He spots two guards at the end of the hallway about to turn his way. He swiftly picks up his gun and shoots twice. Right on target. Picking through one of their pockets, he discovers a key card.

He sets off at a light jog, remembering that the server room is the fourth room on the right in the second hallway. He's glad his memory is photographic. 

Sark doesn't meet anyone else along the way, and immediately takes down the lone man at the security cameras. "I'm in. . .  Looking for any sign of Sloane or Sydney . . ."

There. On the last screen. Sydney, strapped down to a chair . . . next to Il Dire. "I see Sydney. And the device."

"Sloane?"

He looks closer. "No . . . no, I don't see him." He whips his head over his shoulder, making sure no one's come in. 

"Does the room have a pass code? Can you get in?"

"I took a key card off a guard. It should be enough. Their system's slightly out-of-date." 

"Copy."

He takes off back down the hall. At the very end, he thrusts the key card into the handle. The door slides open. 

He rushes in and sees Sydney- only she looks considerably different up close. Bruises are all over her forehead, and there are cuts everywhere. 

Sark hesitates, then shakes her, gently, then harder. "Sydney . . . Sydney, get up . . . Sydney."

Always prepared, he takes out a syringe of anti-anesthetic and inserts it into her skin.

After a few seconds, her eyelids flutter and struggle to open. 

"Sydney, get up, we have to go." He begins unstrapping her from the seat. 

She groans. 

"Sydney."

She sees him, bent over her. "Sark?" Suddenly she becomes alert. "What the hell is going on? Where am I?"

"You're in Afghanistan. Sloane's here. He wants to use Il Dire on you, so he had you captured. Where is he now?"

Her breathing comes fast and hard. "You work for him."

"I work for your mother, only her, and I never wanted to work with Sloane in the first place. Sydney, I need to know, where is he?"

"I don't know, I don't remember anything"- Sark works on the last strap- "and the last thing I remember is shooting Francie." Her voice is a low hiss now. "You killed my best friends, you son of a bitch. Why should I trust a word you say?"

"I don't blame you for not trusting me. I've never given you a reason to. But now's the time to start. Help me with the device. We have to go!"

"How did you escape?!"

"There's no time, Sydney!" The last strap comes loose.

At that moment, an alarm sounds, shrill and pulsing. Sark seizes Sydney's wrist and pulls her up. He reaches to his side and pulls out another gun, thrusting it at her and hoping that she won't suddenly turn and pull the trigger on him.

Sark sees the guard in the doorway, but it is Sydney who shoots. The man falls to the ground. 

"Follow me!" Sark calls to her, and they sprint down the hallway together, bullets flying everywhere, shooting and dodging, and barely make it through the door that closes behind them.  They continue running down through the tunnels, and soon Sark sees the aircraft, barely brushing the earth below. He hears Sydney behind him, and as soon as he clambers in, he holds out his hand to help her. She ignores it and climbs up herself.

They stand, looking at each other. 

Sark breaks the silence. "I would appreciate it if you gave me the gun. It won't do you much good anyway, seeing as you're out of ammunition."

She almost throws the gun into his hand.

"Thank you." 

"What is going on?" she asks irritably. "How did you-" She seems at a loss for words.

Déjà vu, Sark thinks . . . just like when I showed up at SD-6. "I suggest you sit down, and we'll talk." He leads her into the interior of the plane. She takes a seat at the table, and he does the same.

"So the last thing you remember is-"

"Shooting someone who for three months I thought was my best friend, but turned out to be a genetic double of her." She glares at him. "That you recruited."

"I don't deny it." Sark, who has been feeling very much alive, suddenly feels cold again. "But I'm here to help you now, Sydney. We can help each other."

She is still glaring at him. "How did you escape?"

His face takes on his usual smirk. "There are a thousand things wrong with your government's 'safe transport' system that I could point out to you, Miss Bristow." 

Sydney looks as though she might be sick on the nicely tiled floor of the plane. Sark resists the urge to comment. Insults won't help him win her over.  So he continues, "Sloane abducted you and brought you here for the purpose of using Il Dire on you. Obviously that would be disastrous. I had a suspicion that this is where he would go, so your mother arranged for me to fly here and extract you."

Sydney breaks in. "Just what exactly *is* Il Dire- or the Telling?" 

He looks away, not wanting to see the soon-to-be horrified expression on her face, and takes a deep breath. "It allows you to alter or relive the past. And Sloane . . . wants to use it on you.  To alter your life back so that you were never recruited into SD-6, never became a spy . . . Back to when he and your father worked together, as allies. 

"Il Dire won't break apart after it's been used, it must be voluntarily taken apart. Sloane and only Sloane will know what he's altered, and changed. But Sydney, if you are truly the one in that Prophecy, you're the only one who can stop him, and if he alters your life . . ."

"I don't believe it," she whispers. "I saw Mount Sebacio . . ."

It is silent for a full minute before Sark speaks again. "When I was in custody, I made the CIA an offer. We would assist them in the search for you, in addition to giving them information about Il Dire. They didn't accept it. Instead, I was ordered to Camp Harris.

"Between what you do, and what I do, Sydney, there is no difference. Every organization has the same goals, strives for the same things . . . We have a common goal: to bring down Arvin Sloane. Sydney, if we work together- Sydney."

She's fighting back tears. 

"I meant it when I said we were destined to work together."

Sydney swallows, and some of her dignity returns. "If that's really me . . . explain how-"

"You saw Mount Sebacio." He begins to quote softly, "'This woman will have had her effect, having never seen the beauty of my sky behind Mount Sebacio. Perhaps a single glance might quell her fire.' Something of that nature? Personally, Sydney, I believe you had your effect the moment you walked into the real CIA."

It is silent again. Finally Sydney says, "I just- I need time. To think, and just- I just need time."

Sark indicates the leather divan with a tilt of his head, and Sydney rises. 

He reaches over, takes out his briefcase, and retrieves his laptop. He has work to do.   


	7. Rendezvous in Madrid

MADRID

"Madrid is nice this time of year," comments Sydney, letting him know that she is under no illusions about where they are.

So is Santa Barbara, a smug voice says in his brain. Sark ignores it. Perhaps I should have blindfolded her after all, he thinks musingly, as the car rolls around to the side of the building. That would hardly build up her trust, though.

Irina smiles warmly at the two of them as they enter. "Hello, Sydney," she says. She turns to Sark. "Did you get the device?"

_I don't get a "Hello, __Sark_." I'm just a lowly agent who risked my life for her daughter. _"Someone triggered the alarm. There was no time to take it."_

She looks away. Then she looks back at Sydney expectantly.

Sydney takes a shaky breath. "There are two possible scenarios here. The first one is that you're telling me the truth, that you want to take down Sloane and you want me to help you. The second one is that this is all just a setup. You're going to hand me over to Sloane as soon as you get the chance. I'm inclined to believe the first one. But I need proof."  

Irina shifts her eyes back to Sark, whose hand is brushing along his left upper jaw line. Suddenly, they hear Jack's voice. "The CIA team invaded the building in Mexico City. I was recovered and brought back to L.A. Sloane escaped, along with the device. The Telling." 

It's coming from Sark, but his mouth isn't moving. Sydney stares at him. "The very, very newest in bug technology," Irina says softly. 

The entire conversation Sark had with Jack is replayed. When it ends, Sark touches his jaw line again. "I made them a deal," he says. "They didn't take it."

"They- they must've thought it was a setup, too," Sydney says, without much confidence.

Irina's eyes are unusually bright as she looks at her. "Sydney- how can I convince you that this is not a deception?"

"You can't."

"If there was ever a time I needed you to trust me, it's now."

There is a long pause. 

Sydney sighs. "I'll do it. I'll work with you. But . . . if I see even the slightest sign of possible betrayal, I will go straight back to the CIA."

Irina beams at her. "There's a room on the next floor. Third on the right side. You should get some sleep."

Sydney slows turns and leaves the room.

Making sure the door is securely shut, Sark turns back to Irina. "She still doesn't trust us."

"I know. We just have to watch her constantly." As she says this, she switches on three tiny monitors on her desk.

"She'll be looking for bugs and cameras, you know."

"The entire ceiling is a camera."

When Sydney walks in, Irina looks up at Sark. "The CIA's still going to be searching for her."

Sark nods. "I'll take care of it."

"Sark?" she calls to his retreating back, and he looks over his shoulder.

"Doren's alive."


	8. CIA News

He can barely breathe, barely get out his next words. "How do you know . . . ?"

"One of our agents intercepted a transmission . . . Her transfer code name was 'Hawk.'" She looks at him, eyes full of compassion. "The CIA lied to you. She's already been transferred to Camp Harris."

"Surely we can do something . . ."

"We'll discuss this when you return," she says, a note of finality in her voice. 

And Sark knows it's useless to pursue the subject. He turns and walks away, trying to keep the lingering thought of Allison out of his mind as he makes plans.

CIA OPS CENTER

"Agent Vaughn." 

  
Vaughn spins around, coming face-to-face with Kendall. His face is even more serious than usual.

"You need to come with me." He pauses. "We think we found something."

Vaughn's stomach lurches. Wordlessly, he stands up from his desk and follows Kendall into the briefing room. 

When he arrives, he sees an assortment of all of Sydney's friends- and one family member—Jack, Marshall, Dixon, Carrie – even Will- and a dozen other operatives.

No one says a word to him as he sits down next to Will.

"We received intel from a contact in southern Brazil. A hotel was burned down two days ago- the local authorities suspect arson. Among the deceased there was a young woman. She was severely burned, but her description matched that of Agent Sydney Bristow."

Vaughn hears the sharp intake of breath from Will. He takes a short glance at him and sees that his expression is stricken.

He fights to keep down the pain welling up.

"We're in the process of verifying the accuracy of this intel." Kendall puts his hand down on the table, almost too hard, and surveys them all. "We'll keep you posted," he says. "You're free to go."

Jack is the first to leave. He is the only one who doesn't have a shaken look on his or her face. Everyone else's expression mirrors Will's—including Vaughn.

_No, _his inner voice screams, _no, she's not dead, no, she just can't be . . ._

*              *              *

The next day, it's been confirmed. Agent Sydney Bristow was killed in an arsonist fire.

The very next day, Agent Michael Vaughn turns in his resignation form to the CIA.

A/N: The promise of Sarkney still looms!! Don't give up on it yet. I'm still deciding on whether they should be related or not (probably not) . . . I'll keep ya posted. We may not have an update for awhile but I'll definitely give out teasers and the like.  Please review, and thank you to those who already have, it's appreciated!!


	9. Jakarta

JAKARTA, INDONESIA  
  
Sydney is reading a battered copy of Pride and Prejudice, completely intent on ignoring the man next to her in the jet.  
  
Sark watches her, his gaze unwavering. He reflects on how it's the perfect title for Sydney's current situation-she's shelved her pride but hasn't lost her prejudice for him, even though they are working toward a common cause. Still isn't over the 'assassin' bit.  
  
He sighs. Now would be a good time for him to explain-about Allison. He takes a deep breath and ventures to speak. "There are a few things that I'd like you to know about."  
  
Sydney looks up from her book and eyes him warily.  
  
"It was not my suggestion to perform the genetic procedure on A.G. Doren; in fact, I argued against it. Sloane was the one who made the decision."  
  
Her expression holds contempt. "Obviously you didn't argue hard enough."  
  
"You don't think so?" he asks, his voice hard. "Believe me, Sydney, I tried everything to stop Allison's- to stop Doren's operation. But Sloane was set on it." He stops, aware he might have gone too far.  
  
But Sydney is looking almost triumphant. "You called her Allison."  
  
He bites his inner cheek. "You allow your fellow operatives to call you Sydney," he says, rather defensively.  
  
Now she seems thoughtful. At last she says, "' Sark' can't be your real name."  
  
She is met with a cool smirk. "Perhaps it is."  
  
"Do you even have a first name?"  
  
"I prefer to keep my . . . origins . . . separate from my professional life, Miss Bristow."  
  
Her next words come out almost in a whisper. "How did you get involved in this life, anyway? This . . . this-world of . . . just . . ." She trails off. She's now looking directly into his clear blue eyes. "There is so much I don't know about you."  
  
He feels a strange sort of leap in his heart, and suddenly he is reminded of seeing Irina in one of her more . . . seductive moods . . . maybe . . . maybe there's something more than just plain curiosity in those brown eyes . . . maybe that's just what it is . . . they're almost too close to each other . . .  
  
Of course. She's only trying to get some extra information out of him. He averts his gaze. "And I think we'll keep it that way," he says quietly.  
  
Sark chances a glance back at her in a few minutes. She looks rather downcast.  
  
Briskly, he changes the subject before she manages to change his mind. "We're landing in ten minutes. We should reach the alleged 'hide-out' in an hour."  
  
Sydney nods in acknowledgement and immediately returns to her book.  
  
Sark stands and strides over to the window, looking below them at the endless sea of clouds.  
  
* * *  
  
MADRID  
  
24 Hours Earlier  
  
"I've planted the evidence, it should be discovered within the next two days."  
  
Irina gives him a short, approving nod. Sark hesitates before changing the subject to the one he is most concerned about.  
  
"Have you taken any action-regarding Doren?"  
  
Irina sighs. "Since the escapes of you and Tippin, they've been reconfiguring their internal network. It's made it much more difficult to access. All we know is that she's alive and undergoing intense interrogations."  
  
He'd been expecting more. Now he feels something cold slam into his chest. "We have nothing."  
  
"Sark-" Irina starts, but falls silent. She begins again in a quieter tone. "As soon as we finish infiltrating the new network, I promise you . . . we will have something."  
  
Sark stares down at the well-polished wood of her desk.  
  
Abruptly Irina takes out a slim folder and places it in front of him. "An asset in Jakarta sent communications to us, regarding Sloane's whereabouts. It's believed he's taken refuge under a member of the Mahala Kej, a small organization of revolutionaries. I'm sending in you and Sydney, along with a separate team. You'll find the details of the mission here."  
  
"When do we leave?"  
  
"Two hours. Op tech has already been prepared."  
  
Sark rises, picks up the folder, and exits the office.  
  
* * *  
  
He turns back around to face Sydney.  
  
He chooses his words carefully. "I don't think it will be difficult for you to remember the-incident in Mexico City at the Vatican Embassy."  
  
Sydney does not look up, but continues to stare down at the page.  
  
"Your CIA picked up a transmission with several key words . . . terrorist attack . . . weapons of mass destruction . . . Rambaldi. Didn't you wonder where it was sent from, why someone would use those key words in an actual conversation?"  
  
"I was too busy wondering what type of . . . [i] person [/i] would choose to incinerate sixty-two innocent people for the sake of killing one." There is cold fury on her face.  
  
"I sent that transmission." He pauses. "My job compels me to perform some unpleasant tasks, but it's not as though my conscience has completely eroded."  
  
"And here I was with the impression that you'd been born without one." Before he can reply, she goes on, "It's like I told you before. We have nothing in common. We are not friends. And we will never become friends."  
  
"But we're allies, now, Miss Bristow." She doesn't reply.  
  
"Which means that for now, we have to trust each other." 


	10. Red Herring

JAKARTA

A quiet, inconspicuous car pulls up next to a small building, tucked deep into the city of Jakarta.

A tall figure steps out: Sydney Bristow, dressed in a tight black dress and sporting a short black hairstyle. 

Sark, from the car, watches her enter the club. He turns on his comm, and hears the click of Sydney's. 

"I'm in," comes her voice.

"I can see that," he replied dryly.

"Remind me again why the Mahala Kej chose a nightclub as their Jakarta front."

"It's not exactly suspect, is it?"

She doesn't reply. She is scanning the crowd for a certain means to access the lower level. Sark smiles to himself, thinking of the unfortunate individual of Sydney's choice.

A few minutes later, Sydney's voice comes back over the comm, only this time in Malay, which Sark does not understand a word of. A man answers her. She answers back in a smooth, silky tone, before switching to Taiwanese. 

He has to admit, she is a wonder with languages.

A couple more minutes pass, before Sydney and her companion move on, presumably to find a more private location. 

A few more seconds and Sark hears a grunt and the sounds of someone falling. "Man down," comes Sydney's voice. "And . . . I've secured us a key card. Now heading to the server room."

"Copy that," replies Sark, opening his laptop. 

He forces his mind not to drift off, not to think of anything but the mission. 

Nothing else.

*              *              *

STARA ZAGORA, BULGARIA

The sun has just begun to set. 

Irina waits in silence. She gazes across the park at a little girl, going down the slide. A woman holds her hand and guides her all the way down. 

Irina turns to watch the sunset.

She senses a presence sitting beside her on the bench and does not need to turn to know who it is. "I'm glad you contacted me." 

"I'm glad you came."

"It was an ingenious way of contacting me." She closes her eyes for a moment, then turns to face him.

Jack gazes at her, impassive as ever. "I suppose it's . . . probably obvious to you why I'm meeting with you."

Barely audible, she whispers, "Sydney."

"The CIA's given up. They found a body. The DNA match was—only 80%. Which means there is a [i]chance[/i], however small, that she may still be alive." Jack looks down, then raises his eyes to look at her again. "And if she isn't . . . I want to know what happened to her."

They both watch the little girl, going down the slide again. 

*              *              *

JAKARTA

"I've hacked the system; you should be receiving the surveillance feed in the next five seconds."

Sark watches the screen, and eighteen different images pop up. He scans them quickly and frowns slightly. "I don't see him."

"Neither do I." He hears her take a shaky breath.

"Sydney, you need to get out of there. It must be a decoy, a setup—the intel was false."

"Copy." The frustration in her tone comes across clearly. 

 Suddenly the tiny screens change to static. Sark presses several of the keys, but the static doesn't disappear. "Sydney."

No response. He hears the beginnings of a struggle before the comm clicks off. 

Discarding his laptop, he exits the car. With a practiced eye, he surveys his surroundings before taking off for the front door.

Sydney could not be lost.

A/N: This chapter is a two-parter, so the next one should be up pretty soon. Thanks for reading, and reviews are much appreciated!! 

Also, as my psychotic education system has decided to resume school NEXT WEEK for reasons unknown, updates will probably not be as frequent. However, most of my class time will probably be spent daydreaming about Sark anyway. :D Mmm . . . Sark . . . :lol: Must print out Sark pics for locker. 


	11. Developments

STARA ZAGORA

"I have no way of knowing whether you're really willing to work with me." Her gaze penetrates. "Or if this is a setup."

Jack holds her stare. "No. You don't."

*              *              *

JAKARTA

Sark quickly makes his way around the club. He is well aware that he does not blend well here. 

He spots the door. 

It looks ajar when he reaches it. He looks down. Caught between the frame and the door is a small, jeweled bracelet. Sydney's. 

He notes wryly that Sydney's aim has improved considerably since she joined with them.  

The hallways appear deserted. Not a good sign. 

He catches the tiniest flicker of movement, and leans back against the wall.

Target. He takes a single shot, and he doesn't miss.

He takes a chance and begins to walk out again, only to fire two more shots at coming guards. Sark waits several more seconds. 

No one. 

Corners . . . walls . . . corridors . . . 

Sark turns another corner and sees two men down . . . and two more. And carrying an unconscious Sydney. 

He squeezes the trigger. Twice.

He hurries to Sydney and puts his hand under her head, pushing it up. Sydney's eyes flutter. 

"Come on, Sydney." She makes a valiant effort to sit up straight, but falls back. 

Seeing she isn't able to move, Sark lifts her up, puts her over his shoulder, and begins walking as quickly as he can to the front of the club. He spots the door in a few seconds later.

Suddenly Sydney grabs his gun, extends her arm over his shoulder, and shoots. Three times.

She collapses back onto him, and he hears the gun clatter to the floor. 

Sark chances a look back while retrieving his gun, and sees one more man lying on the ground, a few yards away.

He pushes open the door and is instantly confronted with the loud, dull, sounds of the music. Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, considering he is carrying a grown woman, Sark moves towards the exit. 

A couple of people stare curiously, but Sark knows they all must think Sydney's passed out.

  
With an inward sigh of relief, he sees that the car is still parked outside. 

He lets Sydney down on the seat gently, and climbs in, slamming the door. 

The car takes off. 

*              *              *

"Sydney's safe. That much I can tell you. But there's something I need for you to do before you can see her."

*              *              *

Sydney is awake, staring down at her hands in her lap, slumped against the seat. 

Sark silently watches her. 

What a life she's had . . . double agent . . . lies . . . betrayal . . . learning the truth about her mother . . . and her father . . . 

And yet she still tries. Tries to deal with it all, to live as normally as possible, always striving to make things right.

Her eyes travel up, slowly, finally meeting his own. She slightly raises her head. 

His lips touch hers first, hers hesitating for less than an instant before pulling herself toward him, with all-consuming force. 

He loves her for it.

*              *              *

"I need you to see to the escape of Allison Doren."

It is silent for a long, long moment.

"Consider it done."

A/N:  :) 


	12. The Day After

A/N: I pretty much just randomly decided on a wine . . . :)  
  
MADRID  
  
Irina is quietly furious upon learning how the Jakarta mission went. She dismisses Sydney almost absently, but asks Sark to stay behind.  
  
The door closes. Irina doesn't speak at first, as though deciding what to say. Sark senses that something of magnitude must have happened while he was away.  
  
She passes him two slim folders. "These are the mission specs for Argentina. Read it over; if Sydney chooses not to take it you can either go solo or assign it to a team of Class A's."  
  
This can't be all.  
  
It isn't. "We-believe-we have a plan for Doren's escape."  
  
He feels a sort of sickened lurch in his stomach. He had nearly forgotten. But he recovers in an instant.  
  
"Will it require my assistance?" he asks briskly.  
  
Irina shakes her head, and again, Sark senses an absence.  
  
He ventures to ask. "You seem . . . off. Is there something . . ." He trails off.  
  
She's put her defense up, Sark realizes too late. There will be no getting it out of her now.  
  
"I might ask you the same question," Irina says gently.  
  
"No," he says, with a half-hearted smile, "I'm just as . . . normal as ever."  
  
She leans forward a little. "Aidan," she says. "I know what Doren means to you."  
  
Sark feels a little jarred. He hasn't heard his name in over six years.  
  
And for another thing, he isn't really sure what he feels about Allison anymore.  
  
"I appreciate your concern," he says, rather stiffly, "and the fact that we have a plan is also quite reassuring." He rises. "You know where to reach me." He turns and leaves.  
  
Once outside the office, he breaks into a jog.  
  
He reaches Sydney on the verge of entering her room. Sark notices her uncertainty under her normal, cold exterior.  
  
"Sydney-" he begins. "I really think there are some things-last night, in particular-that we should discuss."  
  
Clearly she's been expecting this, because she sighs and says, "I know, and I just-there's nothing to say."  
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
Silently she nods.  
  
He knows why-why she wants to forget . . . Suddenly everything comes into perspective. It was a one-time thing, for the both of them. He had Allison- not a certainty, he admits-and Sydney . . .  
  
Sydney had Agent Vaughn.  
  
"Oh, and-here . . . this details a mission to Argentina. It concerns, predictably, retrieving another Rambaldi page." He hands her the copy. "It's not mandatory."  
  
She takes it but continues to look at him, expecting something else.  
  
"That's all."  
  
"So does this involve Sloane?"  
  
Sark considers. "No-well, not directly at least. If you want to prevent him from getting the page himself . . ."  
  
Sydney flips through the pages, taking it in rapidly. Finally she says, "You've forgotten the reason I am here in the first place and that reason is, to take down Arvin Sloane. And as far as I can see, this mission has no relevance to him at all. Assign it to someone else." She holds it out to him.  
  
"As I said, it's not mandatory," he replies coolly, taking it. He strides away, not even bothering to look back at her.  
  
Five minutes later, he is speeding through Madrid, automatically taking the turns and twists of the street.  
  
He needs a glass of Merlot. A large one.  
  
A/N: yeah, very short . . . muse working overtime on allison/escape details . . . 


	13. Merlots and Doorbells

MADRID

The glass feels smooth and strangely comforting in his hands. He slowly raises it and takes one long sip. 

He doesn't want to think tonight, nor does he want to feel. He smiles bitterly and takes another drink. _Feeling._ In training, you weren't supposed to feel. You weren't allowed to feel. 

Odd Irina would be the one to teach him that.

He leans back onto the cool leather and gazes around. These walls had been blank when he'd first found the apartment. He'd filed them.

He had decided against red paint for the walls, instead gone for a new, modern style of purple. Not a bright shade, much more muted.

There is a silver, circular mirror directly across from the leather chair. He stares into it, at himself. Nothing different. Perfectly normal. 

The slim black folder is lying on the coffee table. He leaves it there. _Matthews could take it . . . send him along with Knightley and Crowe . . . oh, to hell with it, I'm not dealing with this now . . . Missions could wait, for the moment. He needs this time, for himself. _

He drains the glass and goes to his room to change.

He keeps his pajamas simple: a pair of boxers, sometimes a shirt . . . he's resolved never to buy himself a robe, never. He glances at the clock. A little past midnight. 

The doorbell rings. He blinks. Irina? Allison? 

He walks quickly to an abstract painting above his dresser, presses the upper left corner, and uncovers the security cameras. Reassuring to have, although he doesn't really expect that the CIA would take the time to ring his doorbell . . . now . . .  front door . . . 

Sydney.

He hesitates for a minute before throwing on his shirt and pants again and walking quickly to the door. 

Sydney is standing there, looking rather rueful. Somehow he can't get his mouth to move, or say anything.

Sydney seems to be finding it difficult to talk also. "Hi," she says finally, abruptly. "I was harsh, today, after the debrief, to you. And I've thought it over, and I guess, I will go to Argentina . . . I guess I just realized . . . that even a small blow to Sloane . . . is still a blow." She takes a deep breath. "It doesn't really matter if you've already organized a team-"

Sark finally finds his voice. "No, I – I haven't. It's still open."

There is a long pause. 

"I . . . I know, I really shouldn't be here . . ."

"No." Her eyebrows go up a notch. "I mean, you know, it's all right . . ." he continues hurriedly, "it's just obviously not . . . the best . . . idea."

Sydney is looking at him with a certain concern. "Are you okay?" 

He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror again. Not at his best. Disheveled to say the least. 

He turns back to her. "I'm all right. Really."

Her eyes travel back until they rest on the empty wine glass on the coffee table.

"I appreciate your coming to tell me all this before I'd arranged a team," Sark says, bringing her focus back around to him. "It certainly makes things easier." He feels a tinge of color enter his face. He is making a fool out of himself and in front of Sydney Bristow. 

There is the barest trace of a smile on her face. "I should go." After a second, she turns and enters the elevator at the end of the hallway. 

He closes the door, and looks across the room at the half-empty Merlot bottle. A few seconds pass before he walks past the table and enters his room.

He sees his cell phone lying on the dresser. He turns it off. He doesn't care who needs to call him. In fact, if anyone called him right now he would probably tell them to go to hell. The change was amazing. Like someone had just taken away a huge bundle full of things you were carrying. 

He collapses under the sheets and smiles to himself. Aidan. God, it has been so long. "Aidan," he says out loud. "My name is Aidan." Aidan Sark, how odd that sounds. It's better than his old name. He doesn't even want to think about it. 

There's a song in his head. Piano music. Someone singing. A woman. He doesn't know what it is or where he's heard it. He listens.

_. . . brings such misery and pain . . . I know I'll never be the same . . .  _Why can't he recognize it? It's so familiar . . .

_I guess I'll never see the light . . . I get the blues most every night . . . _

He draws in a sharp breath.

_Since I fell for you . . . _

Too much wine, he thinks haphazardly. There would be hell to pay in the morning. Irina was not lenient when it came to hangovers.

He smiles a little, lying there, listening to the distant memory of the song.

_Since I fell for you._

LOS ANGELES

_TRANSMISSION: __LOS__ANGELES__CENTRAL__INTELLIGENCE__AGENCY__OPERATIONS__CENTER___

_RECIPIENT: __CAMP__HARRIS___

_ALLISON GEORGIA DOREN, NUMBER 45879, HAS BEEN ORDERED TO __ARLEN__CENTER__ FOR INTENSIVE QUESTIONING. TRANSFER __WILL TAKE PLACE__ AT __4:00 AM__ TOMORROW. _

_DIRECTOR WILLIAM KENDALL_

Jack Bristow did not hesitate before hitting "send." 


	14. Discovery

NEVADA

A van pulls up into a gas station in southern Nevada. The air is cool, and the moon is still visible on the far side of the sky. 

  
There is another van, waiting. 

Two men step out of the car, between them a cuffed and half-drugged woman. The three of them proceed to the second, stationary van. 

The back of the van opens, and the woman is thrust inside. It closes.

One man gets out, shakes hands with the two men, and re-enters the van. 

Within ten seconds, both vans are gone. 

*              *              *

A static-filled voice sounds on the radio. 

"We got her."

Jack Bristow responds. "Copy that. Proceed to landing base."

"Copy."

*              *              *

MADRID

"I tried to call you on your cell last night. I couldn't get through." Irina gazes at Sark questioningly.

"Battery failure. I replaced it this morning," Sark replies. 

"And you were late."

"I apologize."

"It had better not happen again."

He had downed three cups of coffee before he could bring himself to drive over to the office. 

He had tried, through his burning headache, to make sense of the night before. Sydney had come . . . apologized . . . the mission. The mission. 

"Sydney and I are taking Argentina," he says. 

Irina seems pleased. Then her face becomes serious again. "We've just confirmed—Doren is on a private flight headed for Madrid."

There is silence. Sark finally speaks. "If you don't mind my asking—how has this been planned? How exactly did you bring this all about?"

Irina looks away, and back. "Now is not the time." And Sark knows he'll just have to stay content with that answer. 

*              *              *

CIA OPS CENTER

"Uh, Mr. Kendall, there's something I think you—really should . . . see, here." Marshall tentatively holds out a piece of paper to Kendall, who eyes him incredulously. 

"Make it quick."

Marshall looked considerably more nervous. "Okay . . . um, you'll see a message transcript here, supposedly sent from us, the CIA, to Arlen Center. And you were the one that sent it."

Kendall looked up at him and frowned. "I don't recall sending any messages to Arlen Center-"

"You see, sir, that's my point – if you didn't, who did? Now, you see, there – in the second row? A series of numbers. CIA official transcript number. Very classified, high-level, secret, top-secret—anyway one of the numbers . . . is not a match. Thirty-third across."

Kendall snatches the paper, scans it, and throws it down on the desk. "Tell security section to get on this right away," he barks at Marshall. "Contact Arlen Center and Camp Harris to check on the prisoner's status. I want tails put on every high-level member in this office. Now!"

*              *              *

Jack glances out the rearview. He's said he's taking a few days off, just for some time. And they understood. At least he thought they did. 

He feels almost on edge. Everything seems to be going along well, and yet he can't help but feel he was reckless. The letter was risky. He had moved perhaps too quickly . . . He glances out again. 

Before he realizes it, he's turned left. _Would've been faster to keep going straight . . . _

How could they get on to him? And then he think of a million solutions, and he feels the sickened sensation in his chest. He could take a risk—just not one this foolish.

That gray car—still behind him. He turns right. 

Within a few seconds, it's there again.

_Damn it,_ Jack thinks furiously. He drives faster now, picks up speed—takes turns that have no logical path. 

Within ten minutes, the car is gone.

The plane is waiting for him. 

He apologizes for the delay.

*              *              *

"Mr. Kendall, we think we have the source of the letter." The young agent can barely suppress his proud smirk. "Jack Bristow." 

*              *              *

24 Hours Later

"Sydney . . . there's someone I'd like you to see." Irina rises from her desk and walks across the room. She opens the door. 

Sark stands off to the side. It seemed so incredible to him when he first learned of it, a few hours ago . . . but now . . . 

In walks Jack Bristow.

And for once, his steely reserve is thrust aside. He holds his daughter tightly to him. She hugs him back. 

Sark looks away. He feels as though he is intruding on something sacred, something that he knows he should not share in. 

Quietly, he exits, without a glance back. 

A/N: I realize I did stray a bit from the impending Sarkney and Sark and all that good stuff . . . but these were plot things I needed to get done . . . then we can have all the characterizations we want. :)  My muse is working as hard as she possibly can . . .  Reviews are appreciated, as always. 


	15. Confrontations

MADRID

The next morning, Sark steps into Irina's office and is instantly met with the unexpected. 

Allison is there. 

He feels a rush – of not knowing what to say – what to think – he has tried to prepare himself for this, planned out the scenarios in his mind. 

Gone blank. 

Luckily, Allison speaks first. "It's been a long time." 

"So it has." Her hair is a little longer – it could be because it wasn't styled in the likeness of Franc – someone else. She's also a little thinner, and has abandoned the bright makeup her alias had required her to wear. For the first time in months, she looks - almost like herself. 

But not quite. 

Irina rises and quietly leaves the room.

As soon as the door clicks, Sark breaks in. "What happened to you?"

Her whole face is one of pure fury. "What happened to me? You really want to know? You care enough now to ask me that?"

"I could be asking you the same thing-"

"-I was nearly killed-"

"-If you really cared about me or your loyalties to Irina-"

"-I have no loyalties! And you should have pulled me out before Stockholm instead of-"

"-You should have killed Tippin-"

"-abandoning me and leaving when the CIA-"

"-You had the opportunity and you didn't take it, you should have called-"

Allison's ice-cold stare ends it. "There wasn't time," she hisses. "You weren't there, you don't know how – conflicted I was, and I just . . ." She looks away from him.

It takes a few seconds for Sark to realize she's staring at the door. He whips around. It's Sydney.

_How much did she hear?_ Sark wonders. 

But she's wearing an expression to rival Allison's. And the two women won't take their eyes off each other.

"I was looking for the Kenan Patrel file," Sydney says to Sark, still looking steadily at Allison. "I was wondering if you knew where to find it."

"Top drawer on the left," Sark answers automatically. He's awed by the sheer intensity between the two. It's like a force field.

Allison turns to Sark. "I'll be downstairs." She whips past Sydney and disappears into the corridor.

Sydney immediately turns her attention to Sark, and he waits resignedly for the outburst.

"What," she asks very pointedly, "is that woman . . . doing here. I was under the impression that the CIA had her."

"Sydney, this was news to me, too, a couple of days ago. I had no idea about the plan-"

"But you knew she was going to get out, didn't you?"

"I didn't know it would be so_ soon._ I was given the impression that it would be months before she was extracted."

Her expression is so full of confusion and incredulity. "_How? What was the plan?"_

"I don't know. I've been wondering that myself."

Silence. Then it hits them together. It's the only possible way.

"Oh, God," murmurs Sydney. "He wouldn't . . ."

"He would." He watches her closely.

Sydney shakes her head, over and over, and then looks up at Sark, with tears in her eyes. She doesn't say anything. 

She seems about to leave, but remembers the file and retrieves it first. "I'll see you," she says.

Sark hesitates. "See you," he says. The casual expression feels strange to him, foreign. A little too American for his British tongue.

He could swear he sees Sydney smile a little.

Irina's back. Sark prepares himself for the third female-led dispute of the hour. 

Luckily, she isn't in the mood. "How is Sydney taking things?"

"As well as can be expected, I would say." 

"I want to know. She won't talk to me," and Sark sees the hurt in those brown eyes, "and she sees the most of you."

Sark sighs. "Obviously seeing Bristow was reassuring to her. But I really don't think that having Allison so close . . ."

Irina nods. "I'm sending her to Germany. They're going to try to alter the procedure, and after that, I think," she nods again, "I think she'll go deep cover. But it's not confirmed."  
  


Sark changes the subject. "Any word on Sloane?"

"Jack has a couple of new leads; other than that, he's doing an excellent job of staying hidden. But I'm not saying he's given up."

*              *              *

Allison feels the arm around her neck, choking her. She strains for air.

"Nobody told me you were coming to join us." Sydney's voice cuts into her ears. 

Allison gathers her strength and thrusts her elbow into Sydney's stomach, whips around and twists Sydney's arms into a painful position. "I didn't know I was myself. You, of all people," with a harder twist, "should know how it feels to be used."

Sydney's leg swings around with a high kick and hits Allison between the shoulder and head, releasing her arms. She ducks from the incoming punch and sends one directly into Allison's stomach. Allison clutches her stomach, barely able to breathe or move.

"If you think that I am just calmly going to accept your presence here," Sydney whispers, her voice leveled, "then you have a lot to learn about me." 

She sends one more kick out. Allison sinks to the ground. 

"Considering you spent half a year living in my house, I'm a little surprised."

She turns and exits.


	16. Barcelona

BARCELONA

Sydney strides into the park and sees her father seated on a bench next to a large weeping willow.  She reaches him, and instead of sitting beside him, she merely stands there. 

Jack immediately realizes she's discovered him. "Sydney, there are a few things we need to talk about, and this place is the most private I could find." He had whispered the name of the street and city into Sydney's hair when they had first greeted each other.

Sydney can hardly keep herself from tears. "Dad," she says, a gasp caught in her throat, "I don't know whether to thank you right now or kill you."

Jack watches her fragile struggle with an unreadable expression. Finally he says, "Sydney, I know. What I did was foolish, selfish, and far too risky, and there were a thousand other ways I could have done what I have done . . . but Sydney, I had no idea before I contacted your mother. I didn't know if you were dead, or alive, or hurt . . . When I came to see your mother, she asked that I take steps to release Allison Doren from custody. And I told her I would, and I lived up to it."

Sydney stares at him, hard. "_She killed my best friends. And you think that you can-"_

"She won't be out for long."

Sydney stops in mid-sentence. 

Jack continues. "I'm taking steps, to insure that that woman will be either dead or in solitary by the end of the month."

She sighs and turns her head away for a second. Then she lets it out. "What would happen if we just went back to the CIA? You haven't even told me-"

"Will's alive."

Stunned, she seems stuck between a smile and more tears. "Will . . . how is that even . . ."

"And Vaughn is no longer with the CIA."

She is silent again. 

It's an odd silence, Jack thinks, watching her closely. Not the reaction he would've expected – at all. Then again, he isn't sure what to expect from his daughter anymore. 

He finally breaks it by saying, "We can't go back to the CIA. They seem to have caught on to the fact that it was me who helped Doren, another indication of my thoughtlessness, and everyone there believes you to be dead. If you go back, they may suspect you of being in collaboration with me, and Sydney, that could mean the end of both of us. You can't go back.

"I may not see you for a long time. I'll be out, freelancing. Working with your mother. She's decided that Sark will have a stronger role in the organization now."

She nods slightly.

"Sydney, I believe you to be the one in the Prophecy." He despises himself for bringing on the vulnerability in her eyes. "And I know, that by killing Arvin Sloane, you can fulfill it, and then, Sydney, you will be out. You'll be free. Just think about it. Peace."

Now she seems thoughtful, and he can begin to see, gradually, her old resolve building up inside her.  _Good girl, Sydney, he thinks. _

He rises. Gently, he runs a hand through her hair, and she gives him a small smile. 

As he walks away, he doesn't look back. 

Then it hits him. _Sark_.__ It was ___Sark_. __

He can't quite believe himself at first. Sydney detested Sark. He was the opposite of everything she believed in, everything she wanted.

And yet, her silence. Unexplainable any other way.

It is so incredible. But the more he reflects on it, the less incredible it seems. 

With his hands on the wheel of the car, he sighs. A quick, short sigh. 

He realizes that he will never fully know his daughter. 


	17. Argentina

ARGENTINA

"We're about half a mile off from here," Sark says, checking his GPS. Sydney nods. They have been walking for over ten minutes.

Sark takes a quick look at her. He isn't quite sure what it is, but something is different. She seems in a good mood, like she's in her element, doing what she's done for so many years. 

It makes him feel as though he's doing something right. 

Sydney's voice takes him out of his reverie. "So . . . Mr. Sark. Are you still sure you refuse to tell me your first name?"

Sark offers her a half-grin. "I'm still sure." He goes on, "I can't understand why people are so concerned with my background. It isn't really one of much interest."

"You think so?"

"I suppose it depends on your perspective."

She turns to look at him. "How about you start with when you met my mother." A clear statement, not a question.

Sark inwardly sighs. He knows her persistence. "I was eight when she found me. It began then." 

"Your training."

"One would say that."

"And then what?"

"My career." He senses her dissatisfaction, and he smiles. 

Sydney gives him a look. "What about before she 'found' you? How _did_ she find you?" 

"I was at boarding school for a time . . . I found out later that I was being observed there. When the time was right, I was - extracted, you might say. And that's all, really. I warned you . . . quite uninteresting."

"It wasn't." 

"Shall I thank you for that?"

"You don't have to." 

"I would pry you for your history, but I'm afraid I know far too much about it already." He could swear he sees her roll her eyes.

"How far will the safe house be?" she asks.

"Not far, really . . . about one hundred miles. Considering the size of South America, it's not that terrible. We have the car."

"The file didn't mention what the page might contain. Any ideas?"

"I don't know for certain, but yes, I have an idea." He hesitates. "Part of a prophecy."

"A part of which one?" she asks softly. 

Sark gazes at her. "I don't know."

The GPS sound grows louder as they approach the coordinates. At the mouth of a small cave, the noise becomes a consistent monotone.

Sydney draws a breath. "This is it." She turns to Sark. "Are you ready for this?"

Sark gives her a quick nod, and without a word, begins the next long walk into the dark cave.

*              *              *

Some ways through, he hears Sydney's voice crackle through on the comms. "How's it going?"

"Marvelously," he replies. "Not much air, no light except for mine, and several bizarre insects. Not bad at all." 

"I'm saying you might want to get it as quickly as possible. Scanner detected movement within the radius. We might not be the only ones here."

He shakes his head slightly. Always. There was always something, always some competition. 

"Copy that," he murmurs, increasing his stride. 

Five minutes later, Sydney's voice returns, a little more stressed. "Sark, they're coming. I'm not sure who it is, could be CIA, could be K-Directorate, could be anyone."

Sark's lip twitches in irritation. "I can't be far off from the page. As soon as I get it, I'll run. The best thing for now might be to lay low, but don't let yourself get on the defensive."

"I know."

"Be careful."

She doesn't answer.

After several more minutes, he comes to the end of a wall. This had to be it. Somewhere in the wall. He takes out a special sifting device and runs it up and down the wall.

Suddenly he hears something in his comm. Some yells, noise, the beginnings of a fight. 

No, Sydney, not now . . . He, almost desperately, continues to search the wall. 

How was she doing? He strains to hear. 

Rough edge. This has to be it. As carefully and quickly as he can, he removes the leather-bound single page and places it in his backpack. 

And then he begins to run. 

Runs, runs, turns into a sprint, and there is the light. Light at the end of a tunnel. He slows his pace. He isn't sure of how many there are, or where they are, or – 

The flicker of movement catches his eye, and he delivers a hard kick to the stomach of the man who had blended with the wall. He barely pauses to watch him fall.

He reaches the outside, gun at the ready now, and sees Sydney, bruised and slightly bloodied, fighting off two men at the same time. She's doing well, but her weary eyes tell the real story. She is about to give out. 

Sark watches – one has his back turned – and he shoots. 

Sydney and the other man stop, for just a moment, surprised, watching the man fall. Sark throws himself out of view. 

Silence is only temporary. He hears someone fall. Was it a ploy to get him to show himself . . . He decides to take a chance. 

Sydney, her hand clamped around the man's wrist, his knife pointing at her throat. 

Without stopping to consider, he shoots again. 

He hits the man squarely in the arm. 

Sydney, now back in control, jumps to her feet and gives a spinning kick to her adversary. He falls to the ground and lies still.

She turns to look at Sark, watching her dust herself off. "You can't always have the last say."

*              *              *

"Do you have the page?"

Sark nods. "Let's go." 

They begin the long walk back to the car. 

After a few minutes, Sark notices Sydney's breathing – stilted and ragged. "Are you all right?"

Sydney stops. Gingerly she lifts up a corner of her shirt. 

A large cut, raw and running freely, reveals itself on her stomach. Sark and Sydney both wince. "I can't believe it hasn't bled through," says Sark, taking off his pack and rummaging through it. "Or that you haven't noticed it." He takes out a long medical bandage. "Or perhaps your pride prevented you from informing me of your injury."

Sydney sighs, exasperated. "You think I would ignore something like this?" She takes the bandage from Sark and begins wrapping it around. When finished, she looks up. "Thanks."

Surprised, he replies, "Of course."

"What time is it?"

Sark takes out his cell and glances at it. "About a quarter to seven. We have about two hours to get to the safe house. Are you sure you'll be-"

"I'm good. Really."

They continue to walk.

*              *              *

The safe house is small, with a kitchen/dining room, a bathroom, and a general common area. 

The first thing Sydney does is announce that she is going to take a shower. Sark doesn't argue with this – she's so worn that one might guess she's been through a cyclone. 

He takes the time to explore the place – he's never been here before. He finds a small supply of food, along with which comes a bottle of wine – not a bad vintage, he notes. Chessboard in the cabinet, several pillows and blankets, candles, clothes, basic survival items. 

It's been nearly an hour, and Sark manages to keep his mind from straying by imagining Sydney's reaction if she found out what he was thinking. He feels considerably more like a teenager than a high-profile assassin. 

Finally, Sydney leaves the bathroom, leaving Sark to discover that all the hot water seems to have disappeared. After a good period of alternate scrubbing and shivering, he gets out and changes into black, casual attire. 

Upon leaving, he sees Sydney in the kitchen, wearing a white tank top and loose black pants, her hair in a ponytail. She's making something – Sark isn't sure what. He crosses into the kitchen with the comment, "You could've taken a bit longer in there – you wouldn't want me to have _all_ the hot water."

"I'm just going to assume," she replies without turning around, "that I'm doing both of us a favor right here."

Sark smiles a little. "I have to admit that I haven't had much opportunity to perfect my culinary skills." Francie fills his mind suddenly. A restaurateur. He immediately. "What's the main entree?"

"Cinnamon toast."

"That actually sounds appetizing," he says lightly. "About how long will it be?"

"Just a couple minutes, I have to use the toaster oven." She turns and gestures around. "Make yourself at home."

Sark drops onto a dark red leather sofa with an afghan draped over it. "Have you made contact with Irina?"

"I left her the message. You know," she continues, "you didn't really give me much detail."

Sark, in the middle of arranging the chess pieces, is puzzled. "About what?"

"I still don't know your first name or where you're from, or where my mother found you-"

"I believe you once said that I couldn't bait you with stories about a woman you never knew."

"In Paris? You remember that?"

"Of course I do. I thought you were aware of the fact that I can recall every second of the time I've ever spent with you. The world, indeed, does revolve around Sydney Bristow."

"Shut up – do you want to get some of this or not? Because I think there's some peanut butter and saltines around here somewhere if you're interested-"

"I take it back, I take it back. No need for threats."

The toaster beeps.  She opens the drawer and takes out the tray, her hands in oven mitts. She sets it down on the stove, takes off the mitts, and pulls out a chair with a piece of toast in her hand. "You never answered my questions."

Sark grinned, "Ah, I was hoping I could divert you. Didn't work." He heads for the tray and takes a piece, and slides in across from Sydney. "My first name – off-limits. My home country – again, off-limits. Where your mother found me . . ." He takes a bite, and after swallowing he says, "England."

"So you're not British?"

"I might be. I don't think I've ever stayed in one place long enough to consider it my own."

"Do you have to be so enigmatic?"

"It does have its benefits, doesn't it?" Very good toast, here. "It's a good conversation topic . . . there isn't much worry about passports . . . it can build confidence in certain compromising situations . . ."

"It gives you a bit of an ego, you mean."

"I can't ever remember being accused of arrogance before."

"Now that's surprising." After a second, she asks, "Did you see the Merlot?"

"I did." He half-smiles. "Were you interested in it?"

"Unless you have something better, then yes."

"As am I." He finishes off the toast and heads to the cabinet. He takes out the bottle, along with a knife and corkscrew. 

Sydney watches as he removes the cork with ease and sets out two glasses, filling them. His motions are smooth and swift. Sydney rises and crosses over to where he stands. Sark hands her a glass. 

"To our continued survival," he says, slightly raising his glass.

With a small smile, she raises hers. The glasses make a quiet tap, and they drink. 

They are so close together now, and he can feel the almost electric connection between their eyes. 

Sydney breaks it by a short glance away, with a small smile. "At the risk of sounding slightly juvenile . . . do you want to play chess? Come on," she says with a laugh, as he gives her an incredulous look, "you have to know how to play."

His blue eyes gaze at her, daring her, challenging her. "It's not a question of whether or not I can play . . . it's more an issue of whether you can."

Sydney gazes right back at him. "I can play." 

*              *              *

"Checkmate." 

"There's no way," Sydney replies instantly, scanning the board. After a second, she comes back with, "Damn."  

Sark laughs. "I thought you said you were good at this."

"I am! I just – I didn't put in enough effort. I could beat you any time I wanted."

"You couldn't beat me even if you tried."

It's quiet. Both are looking at the other, brown eyes locking with blue ones, both waiting.

"Maybe I could."

Her words hang in the air – everything is still. 

There is no time for thought.

Her lips hit his, and he responds with the same intensity – they grasp it – feel they can never get enough as he takes in the scent of her hair – everything is revealed and nothing is secret – she begins to take him in, let his soul fill hers and giving hers to him, feeling that at once, at last, she's found the truth with him - just the pure, the sweet and beautiful truth.  

There, lying in the dark, feeling his arms around her, enclosing her, surrounding herself in his presence, she feels all that is peace.   


	18. New Road

A/N: Regarding smut: Use your imagination, is all I can tell you. I don't plan to write any – if I could, I would, but I'm fourteen :P 

And in answer to sallene's question . . . You ask good questions!! LOL . . . yes, that is my explanation of the scar. 

Thank you, Donnie (even though I doubt you'll EVER see this) for your help in drawing my incredibly confusing diagram (even though you didn't get it either, you showed me how to draw a window), and you took me seriously about the other thing! Unbelievable! 

Oh, yes, one more thing: Just assume there are forests in Argentina. Okay? Okay. ;)  

And, all that being said . . . enjoy . . . 

C

*              *              *

He feels the coolness of the dawn, and warmth beside him. He lies still, in blissful enjoyment, taking in his surroundings.

The first face he sees is that of Sydney Bristow.

Has she ever been told how beautiful she looks asleep? He guesses he would not be the first to realize it. Her long brown hair spills over her face, her features completely unblemished. 

He smiles when her eyes open. 

After a few seconds, she turns over on her side, facing him, her face a picture of pure contentment. 

"Hey," she says quietly. 

He hesitates before venturing out with, "Hey."

She moves under the warm blanket, snuggling in closer. "I like it." When Sark doesn't answer right away, she goes on. "Your name. Aidan." She smiles. "It fits."

"I'm glad." He gives a slight laugh. "Although knowing you, you'll probably persist in using the name 'Sark.'" 

"Which is probably the wisest thing to do, considering our lives."

"Just consider it my gift to you. It's somewhat of a rarity nowadays."

Suddenly, in the silence, he realizes. Irina had known. An evening, so very carefully constructed. She had guessed, perhaps . . . 

There may be changes now, he realizes. Many.

Sydney yawns. "How much time before we have to leave?"

"Maybe two hours." 

He is struck by the force of an idea, an insane hope, something he could never create in reality – "What if we didn't?"

Sydney looks at him questioningly. 

"What if we didn't leave? We could just leave completely, think about it, Sydney. We could go off somewhere and just leave completely, and be out. Out. No more – no more wild Rambaldi scavenger hunts, no Sloane, no – no anything. Start over somewhere else without this."

Sydney gazes at him. "There's just no way . . . it's impossible. I mean . . ."

"No, really." He sits up, leaning against the leather of the chair as his headboard. "I mean, really think about it. It's the perfect opportunity. We could just _go._ There's nothing stopping us."

She follows his lead, also sitting up and letting the blanket slide off of her. "What about the Prophecy? I mean, that could be me."

"It could also be someone else. Yours is not the only profile it fits."

"But my mother -"

"There's a chance, isn't there?"

"What about this new page?"

"That I don't know," he admits. "But it could be part of any Prophecy, now Sydney, _listen. We leave the page and go off, I have a hundred contacts to get us anywhere, it doesn't have to be through Irina. We can go."_

Indecision fills her face. She looks away. 

Come on, Sydney, he prays silently, willing her to say something, anything, yes she would, they could escape, finally, they could be free – 

At that moment, bullets spray the kitchen window. 

Immediately they are both up, Sark throwing on his shirt without stopping and Sydney likewise, while Sark opens the cabinet to pull out two loaded pistols. He tosses one to Sydney, and they split – Sark crawls to the kitchen door and Sydney to the general area's single door. 

Sark cautiously slips through the door, gun ready and eyes darting all over. 

It happens all at once – their fire and his return. His adrenaline flows, feverishly watching for any sign, any movement – more fire. He fires off several more shots, not sure of where they land – it's too difficult to see among the trees . . . 

He hears equal noise from the opposite side of the house. He sends a few more shots out before darting to the back of the house and beginning again. 

It takes him a second to notice the sound on Sydney's side has stopped. 

In fact, it's almost completely silent. 

He considers for a second, and then silently makes his way to the place where Sydney had begun. 

She is nowhere.

He is hesitant to call out; instead, he circles around the building – still no sign of Sydney. 

Suddenly, searing pain through his right leg – deeply shot through – he almost cries out, but rallying himself, he sends a shot towards that direction. 

His last shot. He has to get back in the house. Somewhere, anywhere. But they could be inside. Sydney could be inside. He isn't sure. His blood throbbing, he slides around to the kitchen door and looks in. It appears to be empty. 

Glass litters the floor – he treads carefully – he recovers his cell phone, and staying low, away from windows, he dials a number. 

"Hello?"

"We were ambushed," he tells the other line quietly. "Someone knew we would be here, found us, I'm not sure. Could be anyone, the ones who attacked us yesterday. I can't find Sydney, I don't see her anywhere and I figure she would have somehow made contact with me. I myself was just shot in the leg. We need some kind of back-up, _now_."

"Are all targets down?" 

The pain in his leg increases. "If I knew, I would've told you, now _I need back-up."_

"You'll get it. For now, just find her." His phone clicks off. 

_Again,_ Sark thinks bitterly. _Never mind the fact I may bleed to death. He half crawls to the cabinet of ammunition and finds a good clip. He inserts it inside the gun and sets off again for the first aid. The pain has escalated to an all time high, and his every fiber burns with the effort. Dragging himself now, he sets about putting on a bandage. He begins to see the black just as he's finishing, and it grows, until he sees nothing, and the pulsing drums harder and harder until all at once, he feels nothing – only the black as he falls back onto the floor.   _


	19. Bucharest

With a start, Sark opens his eyes. 

He is lying on a bed with white sheets. 

He sees Irina's relieved face looking over him, and suddenly he remembers.

"Did you find Sydney?" he asks, his voice hoarse. He clears his throat, and begins again. "Where's Sydney? Have you discovered who the ambushers were?" Sark sits up and tries to ignore the sharp stab of pain in his leg. 

Irina takes a long look at him and says, "We don't know. We're following a lead now, but we've got nothing so far."

"Sloane."

Irina says nothing.

He stares at her, trying to penetrate her immobile mask. He realizes, and he says quickly, "It couldn't have been the CIA . . . that's just not even a possibility."

"The fact is . . . it _is_ a possibility. And you'll have to accept that."

Sark shakes his head. "She wouldn't."

"She might."

"And what is Jack Bristow's take on the matter?" he asks, a slight edge in his tone.

"He told me he'd spoken to Sydney. And judging by what he said, it's doubtful she would turn to the CIA – then again, she might have been withholding the truth from him because of Doren's escape."

"How long have I been out?"

"Close on twenty-three hours."

Sark inwardly curses. Excellent, really, how well he was living up to his training. Out for nearly a day, and wounded nowhere serious. "Describe this lead that you have."

"Bucharest. There's a team heading there in the next twenty-four hours. We got an intercept regarding 'the clock' being delivered."

Only Sark could sense her initial hesitation in speaking. He knows her. "You can't prevent me from joining that team, Irina."

She gives him one of her Mona Lisa smiles. "I wasn't going to try." From behind her back, she pulls out a folder and hands it to him. "These are the specs," she says quietly. "For now, you have my consent. But if-"

He cuts her off. "Irina . . . I'm going."

She nods, tucking her hair behind her ear. She turns and leaves the room, as Sark looks after.

BUCHAREST

It is a small place, grey and dark and old. And so very Sloane. The team moves with quiet caution and stealth, ready at a second's notice. Sark blocks out his pain and instead, concentrates on his goal. 

There is something missing, however, as the team discovers, while splitting and moving throughout the building. The only thing wrong is the absence of human life. The place is completely free of all people. 

  
It becomes increasingly clear to Sark, once he's covered almost half of the grounds. And there is not much left to search. 

With a feeling of frustrated resignation, Sark pushes open a door, and he is instantly confronted with a picture. 

Il Dire is there.  Along with two other people.

Sark has seen death. But never, never in a thousand times, has he seen death like this.  


	20. Remnants

He winces in sickened revulsion at the bloodied, crumpled and lifeless body of Arvin Sloane on the ground. The end of a blade can barely be seen, buried deep within the man's chest. 

Sark turns away and sees Sydney, lying spread out against a chair, eyes closed. He walks quickly towards her, taking her wrist in his hands and checking for the slightest hint of a pulse. 

The pulse is there, at a slow but normal rate. Thank God, he breathes silently. 

She appears to be breathing, too.

In fact, everything appears to be normal. Except for the fact that she hasn't awakened yet. 

Sark speaks her name, softly to her. "Sydney." She doesn't respond. "Sydney," he says, slightly louder, even though he's gradually realizing that she won't wake up, no matter what he says or does. 

Two members of the team run in from behind him. "Is she alive?" one asks him.

Sark can't answer at first. "She's alive," he replies quietly, after a second. "She isn't responding."

The other man takes a look at Sloane. "From what I can see, Bristow took a pretty clear stab at him." He radios into a walkie-talkie, "Send medics to east wing, third room."

Sark turns away, not looking at them, not looking at her, looking away until the others arrive, taking Sydney out of the room.

He doesn't follow. Instead, he approaches Il Dire. 

It isn't small. It isn't massive, either – yet an aura of dignity and importance surrounds it. Sark studies it hard . . . so this is what they had been seeking to build – here, in the flesh. It was real. And yet so surreal.

Several wires with circular caps on the ends are hanging down off of it. Sark runs his fingers through them, feeling the smoothness and perfection of five hundred years of discovery. Suddenly he feels a break in one. He touches it again. 

There is a splice in the center of a wire. He isn't sure – had she ripped it off and caused it to break? He takes a closer glance at it. 

"Sir, we're going to have to take this," a voice says behind him, and he turns to see a few members of his team. He steps aside and watches them carefully take the machine up and across the room, going out. 

Sark is alone in the room. Sloane's body is also gone – it is only himself. 

  
With one final, desperate glance around, he approaches the doorway and follows the last of the team down the hall.


	21. Austria and Back

MADRID

"How's Sydney?" Sark asks the minute he swings through the door, his steps quicker than usual. 

Irina glances up from her laptop. "She's in our Hong Kong medical base – still unconscious but stable." The pain on her face is so clearly visible that Sark wants to turn away – he senses exactly how she feels. She continues. "It's unclear what's actually wrong with her – there's no internal damage, no bleeding, no viruses – she's almost in a coma, but there's no reason why she should be. It's just . . ." She breaks off and starts again bluntly. "We're checking the device. There's a wire that looks-"

"I saw it," Sark replies. "Like it was strained. Almost split in two."

"I've got people on it right now."

"Are they good?"

Irina exhales. "They're good."

Sark follows her eyes as they trail away. "Is there anything I can do?"

She looks back up. "I'll give you a few days to rest up, if you need it. Come back when you're ready."

"I don't need it."

Her voice is gentle but firm. "Then it's an order. Come back in a week. You'll be better for it."

Their gazes meet, until Sark breaks the silence by saying, "I understand." He turns away and leaves Irina alone in the room.

AUSTRIA

He's always liked it here – it's quiet with enough energy and sights to save it from monotony. It's so unlike Italy – the beauty of it is not so flamboyant.

He takes a long walk around the city, just enjoying the crisply fresh wind on his face, watching all the people walking to their normal jobs, with their normal families and meeting their normal friends, never glancing once at him and knowing who he really is. He feels welcomed, in that respect. He enjoys the feeling of freedom for once. Perhaps Irina was right.

He knows he could be spotted. For once, he doesn't seem to care. He could spend all day like this, walking, free, with no one calling him, no one to steal a life away from so casually, as he does, no one wanting things for their own greedy, pointless purposes. When he thinks about it, it all does seem so pointless, so useless. He doesn't know what he'll get in the next life. 

  
With a pang he remembers, asking Sydney to come away, so she could enjoy the freedom he feels now. If she had come – but this was not a week of things that could have been. 

_"__Sydney__." He runs his fingers through her long, beautiful brown hair. Her arms encase him, radiating heat and closeness all through him. God, they're so alive together. A smile plays on her lips. _

_He smiles back at her, and they turn together, herself so close to him, her lips so close. _

_"You haven't told me your name," she whispers._

_His blue eyes glint at her innocently, before he murmurs back. "Aidan."_

_Her face is charmed, and she repeats, "Aidan."_

_His touch moves her, and he hears her moan of pleasure. "Are you satisfied now, Agent Bristow?" he asks with a light grin._

_"Not quite," she breathes back, pulling him in closer for another kiss. _

"Sark." Irina's voice takes him back to the present. "I thought I was doing you a favor when I gave you a week off."

Sark shifts. "Athens. Catacombs of St. Athanasius. You want to recover the coordinates of the Rambaldi vial from a certain resting place, the name on which is Ana Karteles." He pauses, unsure if there is more.

Irina tucks her hair back. "And you'll have a partner." She looks directly at him. "Allison."

Sark blinks. "I was under the impression that she was being sent to Germany."

"They're still trying to recover the material from Marcovic's lab. It would be useless to send her there when she could be assisting the organization in field work."

"Surely you've noticed our recent – animosity to one another as of late."

"And I know it won't affect your performance. You work well together."

Sark's mouth tightens a little. "I truly don't think this is a good idea."

Irina briefly closes her eyes. "Don't make this any more difficult than it has to be."

"If this mission fails, the blood is on your hands, Irina."

She looks at him with weary eyes. "Aidan . . ."

That has done it. Sark rises. 

"No. Not Aidan," he says, his voice rising. "You've passed the time when you ever had the right to use my given name. I'll be taking the mission with Allison. Just remember what I've said. We're past that level now." 

He turns, strides out of the room, and quickly pulls the door shut behind him.


	22. Regret

ATHENS

Sark is driving the car, looking straight ahead at the lightly crowded streets, avoiding meeting Allison's eyes. She, in turn, isn't facing anywhere near him.

"There are so many things we should talk about," Allison says quietly, her eyes still on the road. 

Sark makes a smooth turn around the corner. "What is there left to talk about?"

"Everything."

After a moment's pause, Sark says abruptly, "So. Let's talk. We'll start at the beginning. When did you first fall for Tippin?"

He can sense her irritation and embarrassment and says, "There's really no point in denying it, Allison. I'm merely curious."

"The hour after I had extracted the first of our intel from him."

Sark can almost feel the old wound rising up in him. At least she is being honest. 

"I see. Would it be correct to assume you still harbor these emotions for him?"

He hasn't been this cold in awhile – but then, cold is all he's been lately. Nothing but cold and distance. Even with Irina. 

She finally looks at him, a steely, stubborn look in her eyes. "I care _nothing for Will Tippin anymore. And I will swear to that." When he doesn't respond, she adds, "And I know you've been sleeping with Bristow."_

Sark also breaks his stare and turns to her. "Unlike my former relationship with you, I define my relationship with Sydney as something more than a mere evening pleasure every couple of months."

"There was something else there with me, and you won't admit it, no matter what I say."

Sark makes a tight swerve around the bend. "I won't admit to what never existed."

He pulls the car to a sudden stop. The old church of St. Athanasius looms over them, the unseen catacombs being borne upon. 

Sark glances back at Allison. "Are you ready?"

"What makes you think I'm not?" She opens the car door, steps out wearing a conservative black coat and dark clothing, and begins to walk in the church. Sark had half-heartedly objected to going in the catacombs himself, for a number of reasons. He just wasn't feeling up to it. 

Allison will send the pictures of the code to Sark, once she has taken a clear image of it. It is fairly straightforward. Easy enough to be done solo, Sark thinks, waiting in silence for her to send in. The only reason he can think to have two agents is that they're tightening their servers' security – there hasn't been word on how Sydney and Sark's location in Argentina was discovered. 

An image flashes on the small screen he holds in his hand – a series of numbers and several letters. Coordinates, definitely.  

  
Allison makes it back in less than ten minutes, sliding into the car with the air of someone who knows just how good they are.

After a look around, Sark suddenly starts the car with a jerk, and they head off to the road.

The place they choose for the night is small but respectable, with a few rooms on several floors. They check in under Sylvia James and William Masters – a couple, sharing a room. 

Allison calls Irina around nine, to confirm what they have. She then leaves to take a quick shower. 

It is then Sark hears a drone – a quiet, high-pitched, rattling drone. He isn't sure where it is coming from – somewhere on Allison's bed, perhaps – he crosses over and picks up her cell phone, listening. The drone is louder there. It's coming from the phone.

Sark frowns and makes a move to turn it off – and then he stops. He drops the phone and goes to pick up his laptop, opening it as he walks. He takes the telephone cord from the wall, along with a small scrap of wire he reserves for lock-picking. Using the materials, he makes an insert into the cell phone's inner side and plugs it into his computer. Then he begins to type.

Five minutes later, he's staring at a screen. A screen of something his mind doesn't understand.

*              *              *

Allison walks out of the bathroom, hair slightly damp still, not too badly.

"I'm out now if you-"

She is grabbed from behind with a hard, wrenching grasp. Sark's cool voice and the equally cool silver barrel pressed to her head are all she can feel.

"I don't know what you're playing at, Allison – who are you working for, really? Tell me the truth, and I'll let this go, I promise you."

He watches her futile struggle to get out – he has an iron grip, however, and there is no way she can escape from him.

"I swear, Sark, I'm only working for us. For Derevko and the organization-"

Sark's voice wavers a little. "Allison – I don't want to do this, Allison. Just say it and I'll let it go."

Allison makes another lunge to get out. "I SWEAR, Sark, I'm not working for anyone else!"

"Sloane? Is that who it is?" He can feel her desperation – "I'll let it go! Just say the words!"

Allison breathes hard. "Aidan, I swear to God, I don't . . . I wouldn't . . ."

Sark is losing his confident tone now. "Just say the damn words, Allie! That's all I need to hear! Just tell me!"

"But I'm not!" she screams, not caring who hears. 

_"Say the words!"_

She turns as much as she dares and looks at him pleadingly. "Aidan . . ."

The shot rings out.

He drops the gun.

He slowly releases her in numb disbelief as he watches the blood come from her neck, feeling her warmth on his hands, just coated in her blood. He catches sight of her eyes, startled, desperate, teared brown eyes that stay staring at him long after her body touches the ground. 

He was wrong. He knows it. He can only stare at her still, lifeless body, as if he is willing her to stand up again and brush it off like nothing has happened. Her blood is everywhere now – his hands feel taut, sticky. Blood – Allison's blood – he never thought her death would come, never like this, never would he have expected it. 

  
He wishes he could take back the shot – his inside is as filled with regrets and holes than the room is with the blood of Allison.

*              *              *

Without reactions, without emotion, he plans a scene. He barely remembers what he has done – it's almost done in a dream-like state. But his training is automatic – her death is not a murder, because he has presented it another, better way. No one would ever know – it's likely no one would ever even care, or give second thought to one more person on the earth, one more tragedy.

Irina's gaze is constant and everywhere, and she knows, she has to, he thinks dully. She knows everything. He could turn to her – he could, but he doesn't because he's afraid. He's so afraid. It's all a haze – someone's going to the spot where the coordinates of the vial are – he doesn't know who it is, but it isn't him. It isn't Allison, not Sydney either, or Jack. 

Jack.

The only thoughts his mind haven't visited the last weeks are with Jack. He has almost forgotten the steely, reserved character – he was Sydney's father and he didn't notice him around. 

And God, he was Sydney's father.

Jack. Always Jack.

And with this thought in mind, he feels as clear as he has in a long, long time. 

*              *              *

SEVILLE

"Mr. Sark. You wanted to see me."

Sark holds his gaze with the impeccable Jack Bristow and finds it much easier than he expected. It's only the second time he's spoken with the man, face to face, with no restricting glass between. "I did, and the reason being – I believe you set Allison Doren up."

Jack allows his face to shift a bit. "I was under the impression that she committed suicide," he says dryly, "unless you're suggesting that something else happened."

Sark knows he doesn't know what he could possibly be getting into by telling Jack this, confronting him like this – it is the only think he can think of. "I am, actually – I admit to being the one who murdered Doren. But for a reason – her cell was on, and I discovered something a bit strange – her cell was pulsing out a signal. Without her knowledge I hacked in and found there was a second line connected on – at the time, I assumed she was working for another organization. She wouldn't confess to it. In the moment, I shot her – and I regret that." His blue eyes stare, hard, at Jack. "And now I suspect it was you who engineered this. Convenient, really," he goes on. "You work through me, get rid of Allison, and thereby remove yourself from guilt entirely, your guilt to Sydney and to yourself."

He sees a slight reaction at Sydney's name, but it vanishes instantly. "Your suspicions, Mr. Sark, have been wrong before, and frankly, they're wrong now. I appreciate your honesty in confessing."

Sark pauses, before going on, "You know, I admire you a lot. In many ways – your devotion to your job – to your family – your abilities as an agent, altogether – and your mastery at game theory. But you've never been, as far as I have seen, all that much of a liar."

Jack only gives him a cold glare. "You may not realize the damage this woman has caused – maybe you do. Perhaps you know what she's done to Sydney, or whatever she's done in the past you seem to have had with her. Maybe you do. And, to let it be known, I respect you. You're the youngest and, nearly, the most talented agent I've ever come across. But you have many, many things to learn, when it comes to trust, and relationships, and doing what you think is best for the people that you most care for. And we have a common goal."

Sark is suddenly pushed into understanding.

"If you care for Sydney, like I think you do, and like she cares for you – you must agree with me that this really is the best possible situation for everyone."

Sark is silent, taking in the words again. 

He seems to come to a decision. 

"I agree," he says finally. 

He could swear he sees a trace of compassion. "Trust me when I tell you that I won't reveal our conversation to anyone."

Sark can feel the calmness now – not the fury he had begun with. Without another word, he nods to Jack, and turns to disappear, walking back to his car, back to go home.


	23. London to Hong Kong

Eighteen Months Post – Telling.

LONDON

Sark opens the door and steps into the lobby of the bank, box in hand, avoiding the two unconscious bodies of employees slumped behind the desk in the room. The sleeping chemical had worked well, as always. 

With a wave of his hand, he turns the OPEN sign on the door to CLOSED, and walks out onto the busy sidewalks. 

Being in London again . . . every time, it brought back memories. Memories of people, a family he'd wanted . . . the family he'd gotten . . . He shakes his head as his cell phone goes off.

"Hello?"

"I think we have an answer."

Sark looks puzzled as he continues to walk. "To what?"

"Reviving Sydney."

His heart involuntarily skips a beat, then resumes with fervor. "Talk to me."

"Some type of wire, thin, transparent, best described as spider's web thread – it broke when Sydney stabbed Sloane. We've just figured out how to reassemble it."

"Are they working on it? Are you with Jack?"

"Jack knows, but he's not here. Sark – this could be it. But we're working with things we don't understand here." Sark's head is racing as Irina goes on. "Also. We discovered the genuine liquid for the page you got in Argentina. It's a continuation of another prophecy, like you suspected. It's the one about Sydney."

He stops dead. "What did it say?"

Irina takes a deep breath. "Having received these marks at the forty-seventh minute, of the sixth hour, of the country in which this page shall be concealed, the woman in question will have found the strength necessary to fulfill her duties and bring about the prophecy that I have chronicled. In this I lay my trust and hope – Milo Rambaldi."

_Sydney sighs, exasperated. "You think I would ignore something like this?" She takes the bandage from __Sark_ and begins wrapping it around. When finished, she looks up. "Thanks."__

_Surprised, he replies, "Of course."_

_"What time is it?"_

_Sark__ takes out his cell and glances at it. "About a _quarter to seven___. We have about two hours to get to the safe house. Are you sure you'll be-"_

_"I'm good. Really."_

About a quarter to seven. 

Six forty-seven. 

Sydney got her scar at six forty-seven.

"Sark?" 

He begins to walk again. "That's when Sydney got her scar."

"Six forty-seven."

"Yes."

A beat. 

"They're hooking her up in two hours. They believe it will revive her to her conscious state."

Sark arrives at his car, slides in the seat, and starts it up. "I'm coming."

*              *              *

_Oh, my God . . . God, just let me sleep . . . God . . . wait. I'm __Sydney__. _

_Sydney__ . . . I have to wake up, cause I could be anywhere . . . Francie – she wasn't Francie, she was Allison. __Will's dead. _

_Will, no no no no, Will's not dead. Goddammit, Francie. She killed him. _

_Where the hell am I? _

_What – wires. Am I – hospital? Could be – doesn't look hospital. _

_Oh my God, __Sark_.__

_What – why is he just sitting there. Is he waiting for me to wake up – close my eyes, he won't notice. I can wait – I can wait for him to go away. _

_Stay awake, Syd.__ They'll leave. He'll leave. He'll kill you if you . . . _

_There he goes. Door, door, door, just go . . . _

_I'm alone, I think. Door's closed – there's a window. Half-open._

_Come on, Syd, all you have to do is climb through it and you'll be safe. It isn't that hard. _

_Then you can call Vaughn and cause I miss Vaughn. _

_God, I want to go to __Santa Barbara__._

_OW, God. My head – my muscles – my head feels so heavy. Just – crawllllll . . . Effort – come on, __Sydney__. You've been through worse. _

_Hands on ledge.__ Now just push . . . through . . . _

_Hurts.__ Wait, doesn't. I can't feel it._

_Run __Sydney__ – don't stumble – stop it – run, run, run, run, run, run . . . _

*              *              *

_"Where the hell is she?!"___

"Sir, I don't know! Five minutes after you left the room, we came back and she was gone. I swear, sir-"

Sark doesn't even wait for him to finish and almost runs into Irina and Jack in the hallway. 

"Sydney's not here! She just vanished and no one knows where she is."

Irina looks stricken. Jack immediately asks, "Have you started searching? Have you looked everywhere in the building, asked all the employees if they've seen her?"

"All of it, yes, it's going on right now. I knew it – we shouldn't've – it was a bad plan-"

Irina speaks. "She couldn't have gone far. She just left, and if she did return to consciousness, she would've been disoriented, not known where she was, somehow wandered off. We don't know what state her mind is in right now."

Jack looks at Sark. "Make sure you tap into all likely intelligence networks, see if they've configured a plan to abduct her." Sark feels the emotion underneath as Jack continues, "We've waited months now. There's not a chance we'll lose her again."

With a nod, Sark turns and quickly leaves the building.

 __


	24. Reflections

**NOTE: To all the readers of this fic - if anyone is still reading, that is – I apologize. You see, the reason I haven't updated is because I've been missing for almost two years. It's true. Apparently the last time I updated was December of 2003. You know how it is. Stuff gets in the way. Life goes. I'm now fifteen years old, contrary to the disclaimer at the beginning. I suggest that you go back to the beginning and refresh your memories a bit before proceeding… **

**At any rate, here are the last two chapters of the fic, and I hope that everything is clear and well-written, and if you have any feedback or critiques or questions for me, I'd be more than happy to hear it. Please enjoy it, and I again apologize for the wait.**

Sark leans back from the program-packed computer screen. There has to be a solution to all of this. He begins to visualize…

_Sloane, about to begin using Il Dire on a drugged Sydney. He runs his fingers through her hair and smiles at her, believing what he is about to do is all about to be for the better._ Sark grimaces at the thought of this. What does Sloane believe?

He believes that this is the beginning. He thinks that he can remove all the hate and disgust built up against him by Sydney and Jack will disappear when he alters the past. He thinks that – he thinks Emily will come back.

But with Arvin Sloane the master of time and space, nothing could be safe. Il Dire in the hands of anyone could not be safe. Sark gazes back at the whirring screen and wonders why he'd ever assisted in this endeavor, this quest to build a machine of such destruction. Just a few short months ago, he would have taken great interest in it. Now, Sydney was too important.

He checks the screen again. No leads, no results. No Sydney Bristow.

_Sydney – half-asleep next to Sloane, grasping for the knife she has concealed in her pocket. Sloane turns away – she slips it out. Seconds later, Sloane leans over her and she strikes._

_Breaking the spider-thread wire in the process._

He reflected. _Sloane had already selected a single, small portion of her brain – all the previous memories she'd had up until the day she was recruited to SD-6._ Once those were deleted… she'd be back, back to that one point in the past, in the flesh. They would all be back – he'd be back - but they wouldn't realize they were back, because if time hadn't passed, they wouldn't really be back from anywhere – it was an interesting puzzle, but one he couldn't ponder for the moment. And only Arvin Sloane would know what had been altered.

But suppose that the memory deletion process had hit a milestone – a bump, if you will, on one traumatic event, that Il Dire had used more energy trying to release. Shooting Allison, for instance. A point where the deletion process had slowed, something the brain had trouble forgetting. The wire breaks, and -

He sits up. Sydney then gets lost in a coma, a limbo between space and time – the past might not have altered, but Sydney's mind certainly had. _Sydney might not ever remember anything from the time she's worked with us. That's why she ran off – disoriented, and on top of that, she might have awakened enough to enough to see me in the hospital room – and if she doesn't remember anything, she probably thinks I'm still trying to kill her._

_Oh, hell._

However, he tries not to let this thought throw him off focus. Sydney, though once again his opponent (or so she thought), had to be found. Abruptly his phone rings.

"Yes?"

Silence for a moment. "We have reason to believe that Sydney turned herself back into the CIA."

He closes his eyes. Cold. "I see."

A sigh on the other line. "I know."

He is about to protest this – then thinks better of it. He is not the only one who feels the loss. So he says, "I'm fairly sure that she won't be a risk to our operation. She won't pass along any intel on us or what's happened to her because I believe-"

"She doesn't remember a thing. I believe that, too. We can't know exactly how Il Dire malfunctioned on her – at least for the moment, she's safe."

"What action will the CIA take?"

He hears Irina's tenseness. "I don't know. If I knew, I would-"

"I'm going back to Madrid tonight. We'll discuss this then." He hazards a suggestion. "Perhaps we both need to rest."

He hears her phone click off.

Irina does not want to rest. Neither does Sark, yet it seems sleep is his only hope of forgetting how the Sydney he has come to know, grown to care for, maybe even love, is suddenly never going to be that Sydney again.

He stands up. He is on his way to Madrid. He doesn't have much time before the next flight departs.


	25. Epilogue

EPILOGUE

Sydney Bristow, in full tactical gear, sits tensely in a corner of the plane, staring down at the floor. She was sure that her first mission back out in the field since her missing two years would be a slightly more welcoming one. Yet infiltrating a nuclear lab is not the usual nightclub/wig/seduction scenario she has almost come to enjoy.

Agent Weiss sits down beside her and puts his arm around her shoulder. She looks at him and smiles.

"Picture this, Syd. We focus on the mission, get the job done well, and go to my place and order a pizza. Cosmo's Fine Pizza Pies. Sound any good?"

"What about Tasty Joe's?"

"Too spicy."

"You can get the cinnamon sticks."

"I'm supposed to be dieting."

She grins. "Okay. Cosmo's is good."

He nods. "You'll be fine, Syd."

She nods slowly. "I know."

"_Really."_

She sighed. "We need another lead. I can't sleep at night knowing that I've lost…"

"We'll get there someday, Syd. We'll get there."

Down in the depths of the lab Sydney feels she is finally coming into her element. The familiar wave of coolness settles over her as she slips in and out of corridors in search of one elusive room.

Finally, she comes to it. "Going radio-silent," she breathes into her comm, and steps inside.

Once inside, she finds herself surrounded by tables and tables of chemicals and delicate equipment. Sydney silently approaches the table at the far right, scanning it for any signs of - there it was. She picks up a small brown box, which she finds suspiciously light. But before she can open the box, she hears a slight flick of a door handle. Whipping out her gun, she turns and aims at the figure. "Freeze!"

Sark.

He stops and turns to stare at her. A strange expression has alighted his features… yet she keeps the gun aimed squarely at his chest, approaching him slowly.

"I'm afraid I don't have much choice; the door handle appears to be firmly stuck," he says quietly.

"Sucks to be you, then, doesn't it? Hand over the core. Hand it over!"

"Answer a question first, would you?"

"What's that?"

"Aidan. Have you ever contacted anyone named Aidan?"

"Doesn't ring a bell. Give me the core."

"Think about it. Hard. It's just a simple request."

"I said I haven't, and if I had, I wouldn't tell you. No, I have never had a contact named Aidan. Hand me the core _now_."

His silence implores her to think. Sydney does.

She has a flash, a glimmer, of a burnt piece of toast. Yet nothing else. Nothing Aidan-related in Sydney's mind. "I haven't, Sark. Give me the core and I let you walk out of here alive."

He looks somewhat tired. "Take it," he says, tossing it behind her. Instinctively she turns to grab it, yet he is already out the door by the time she turns around. A swift kick has repaired the problem of the handle, and Sydney scrambles to reach him – yet she flicks on her comm first. "Weiss, I'm outside room 665. Sark's here."

"Come back to the plane. We just received a transmission – they know we're all here. There's no time to chase Sark."

Inwardly she curses. "Copy that. Moving to extraction point."

Aidan… Aidan, Aidan, Aidan…

She shakes her head, starting up a quick run. What a weird request. Still. She has the core, and that's what matters.

Maybe he knows something about her two years.

Sydney stops short.

"Sydney?" comes Eric's voice. "You've got about a minute left."

"Copy that."

Someday.

Sark's truck, located somewhere behind the mass of trees, takes off.

_She really doesn't remember_, he thinks.

Yet she now at least has a scrap. She knows a name. His name.

He could swear he saw a hint of recognition in her eyes, but he knows this is just wishful thinking. Maybe someday it will all come back to her, or she'll find a surgery to repair the damage that's been done. Maybe someday she'll come back.

He contents himself with this thought. He'll see her again. The memories will remain.

END

**Stockholm Syndrome (n)**: A phenomenon in which a hostage begins to identify with and grow sympathetic to his or her captor.


End file.
